Caritas
by Queen of Cups
Summary: Follow up to "The Host" covering 1979-1991


Body **Disclaimer: **The Host and his bar belong to Joss Whedon, David Greenwalt, and numerous suits. The rest is mine for what it's worth. 

**Acknowledgements: **Custom built for ER. Be aware; I don't usually do requests 

**Background: **This is a follow up to "The Host". If you haven't read it - WHY NOT? - here is the story so far. The Host was a refugee, fleeing Poland in the late 60's with his mother and grandmother (who died on the journey). The remaining family escaped, finally arriving in Canada in around 1971. 

****

**Caritas**

**Toronto, Canada 1979**

Nadja Szczyptka looked at her son critically. She called him the way she used to - with her mind. There was no response. She tried again. Still nothing. Why didn't it work? It had been that way for years now. When they had first arrived in Canada, she had learned English by tapping into the minds of those nearby but Witold hadn't been able to do that. Instead, he had spent a day listening to the radio, then began to speak English not with the Canadian accent that she had picked up, but with a light American drawl that seemed to have been gathered from a collection of rock and roll bands. Not that he spoke that often anyway. In the years since they had arrived, he had grown tall and handsome, but his shyness had never receded. He spent his time playing records and listening to the radio. Sometimes he would sing along when he thought she couldn't hear and his voice was strong and pure. Such a shame only she could hear it. 

Witold finished sweeping the porch and turned back toward the house. He saw his mother watching him and smiled. He knew she worried but there was no need. He has all the friends he needed in his record collection. He remembered when he had first heard western music. On a radio in Copenhagen, on the way to a refugee centre. The song was "Let it Be" by the Beatles. Thinking back, it was a fitting soundtrack to the moment. After feeling his Grandmother die, he had closed his mind to people. Very soon, he had stopped having to block them out at all. Even if he tried he couldn't hear them any more. Except, for some reason, when they sang. If Witold reached out to people when they sang, he could see their futures as clearly as he ever could. 

Putting away the broom, Witold stole another glance at his mother. How he wished she would sing for him. Every instinct told him something was wrong, but she held the truth back. He watched as she greeted her next client, and hoped he was wrong. 

Later, upstairs, Witold flipped through his precious record collection. He loved most kinds of music, but his favourites at the moment were the disco divas - Gloria Gaynor, Donna Summer, Patti Labelle. Their songs spoke of hardship overcome, troubles forgotten and they gave him a little rush of inner joy. A kind of ... hope. He sighed. It was a shame that they were going out of fashion. He would miss their happy, uncomplicated music. He put his worries out of his mind, allowing the music to wash over him. 

Two weeks later, Nadja awoke from a particularly vivid dream. Resolutely she planned her day to the last detail, cancelling all of her appointments and then spending several hours on the phone. Then she began to pack. 

Witold rose later and, seeing his mother already up and busy, decided to spend some time in town, browsing the record stores. He waved to her as he left and received a loving smile in return. Impulsively, he turned back and hugged his mother tightly. She stroked his hair. Then, pushing him away slightly, she looked him up and down, pride in her eyes. 

"You're a good son, and I love you very much. Never forget that." 

"Mama," he chided lightly "You talk as though I was never coming back." 

She hugged him again, hiding her tears in her son's broad shoulder. She watched as he left, then continued packing up her belongings. When she was finished, she sat alone at the kitchen table. Taking a pen and paper, she began to write the most difficult words of her life. When her letter was finally completed, she propped it against the sugar bowl and went upstairs. She lay down on her narrow bed and, folding her arms across her chest, closed her eyes for the last time. 

Witold did not return from his shopping trip until late in the afternoon. He opened the door and called to his mother. When she didn't answer, he went into the kitchen to make some tea. He spotted the note on the table and, laying his bags on a chair he tore it open and began to read. 

__

_Darling Witold,_

_Last night I had a dream. I dreamed of your Father. He was calling me. I have been reading futures_ _long enough to know what this means._

_I have packed away all of my things. You may dispose of them as you see fit. I have left my affairs in order, so you have only the basic arrangements to make._

_My only regret is that I must leave you. You are a beautiful boy and I have always loved you more than life. I cannot see your future, but I could always read your heart. I know you will always do good things if you let it be your guide._

_Mama_

_X _

Witold's hand clenched convulsively, crumpling the letter. He rose slowly and started upstairs. The letter caught a draught and fell to the floor where it lay forlornly, like a dying flower. 

****

**New York 1980**

As he got off the bus and looked around, Witold smiled. His surroundings were dirty, noisy and didn't smell too good but he had never felt more at home. As he made his way to the boarding house where he was expected, he felt energy and life seeping through the sidewalk. He got a strong feeling that if he pressed his ear to it, he would hear a heartbeat. 

Later, sitting in the small, badly-lit room he had been allocated, he thought about what to do next. His mother had left a little money, but he needed to get a job pretty soon if he was to get a half-decent room at least. Despite his mild panic at the step he had taken, he lay back on the wobbly iron bed certain that it was the right one. 

The next day yielded a job waiting tables in a nearby demon restaurant, and the discovery of a coffee shop where you could linger all day over a single cup. 

In celebration, Witold bought himself several weighty volumes of demon history and a Blondie album and spent the rest of the day enjoying his purchases. 

Witold's first day at work was another revelation. He was shouted at six times before lunch! Each incident made him feel smaller.. He looked at the other waiters. They shrugged off any troublesome customers with ease. When the shift ended one of them, whose named badge identified him as Eliot, smiled at Witold. 

"First day, sweetie? Don't worry, it can only get - worse!" He laughed "Come for coffee, cutie and Uncle Eliot will teach you all about the wonderful world of tips" 

Over the following weeks, Witold and Eliot became firm friends. They shared histories and Eliot confided his dream. He wanted to appear on Broadway. Unlike Witold, he could easily pass for human. Every night he went to singing lessons, and his days off were filled with dance classes and auditions. 

When Eliot's roommate decided to quit showbusiness and go home to Omaha, it seemed natural to invite the shy Polish boy to move in. He had a spare room and rent to pay, after all. To have a ready-prepared ideal housemate seemed a stroke of great fortune. 

Witold packed up his books and records and left the boarding house without regret. When he arrived at Eliot's apartment he was ushered to a room that despite being cheaply furnished, displayed the dancer's exquisite taste. Together, they unpacked Witold's belongings. Eliot cooed over Witold's records, raised his eyebrows at the books, and positively snickered at his dull, utilitarian clothes. 

"Sweet boy, next paycheque we go shopping." 

The more time that Witold spent with Eliot, the more he assimilated his friend's style. His taste, his ready wit and his easy, graceful movement. So much so, in fact, that mutual friends took to calling Witold "Little E". He didn't mind. 

For his part, Eliot enjoyed mentoring this wide-eyed innocent young man. He had almost limitless potential and his unaffected, natural enthusiasm was quite charming, as was his obvious devotion to his "Uncle Eliot". 

**1983**

"Please, darling. I don't ask you for a lot do I? Do it for Uncle E..." 

Witold gave a resigned smile. Since arriving in New York he had carefully avoided any future-reading situations, but how could he say no? Eliot had always known about Witold's gift, but this was the first time he had ever asked for a reading. He had an audition - a big one. It meant so much to him. 

"Alright wheedle-boy! Sing for me" 

Eliot launched into his audition piece, and Witold closed his eyes. He concentrated on his friend's voice, trying not to allow any barriers to rise. 

_Eliot was standing on a stage, bathed in light. He was bowing and the crowd roared approval_

Encouraged, Witold probed a little further. 

_Eliot was wearing a beautiful suit and smiling - but where was he? It looked like...._

"Well darling, what do you see?" 

Witold's vision broke off and he smiled. 

"You'll do fine, angel. Just fine" 

With Witold still working the day shift, and Eliot performing at night, they saw far less of one another than they had on the past. It was therefore only when Witold heard his friend coughing so hard one night that he vomited, that he realised anything was wrong. When questioned, Eliot confessed that he had been performing with a heavy cold for some weeks. Witold scolded and coaxed his friend to a doctor's office, where a chest infection was diagnosed. Eliot baulked at taking time off from the show, but promised Witold he would rest between performances. He didn't. Instead he contracted pneumonia and collapsed during a a show. 

As Witold hurried through the hospital corridors, using all his skills of camouflage, he was filled with dread. The institutional surroundings were familiar to him. He remembered his vision and found himself offering up a silent prayer for his beloved friend. 

When he reached Eliot's bedside, it was the image from his vision. Eliot was still in costume - a beautifully cut suit - and was lying against the pillows smiling wanly. 

"What were you doing - trying to kill yourself?" 

"Well, darling, you know I always wanted a poetic end" 

"You can't die yet, you ham. You still have to teach me to accessorise." 

Eliot grinned and closed his eyes. 

****

**Los Angeles 1990**

"Okay, class, we'll finish this tomorrow." 

Witold rose from his seat at the rear of the classroom and approached the teacher. 

"Sorry, kitten. Didn't mean to keep you waiting." Eliot greeted him warmly and began to gather his papers. 

Eliot's illness had been long, leaving him unable to perform on stage again. A particularly harsh winter had set back his recovery, leaving Witold convinced that he should move to a warmer climate for his convalescence. Of course he would come too. Eliot was family. You don't desert family. 

Once they arrived in the West coast, Eliot decided to start a performing arts school. There were enough wannabe's in LA to keep him well employed. 

Witold, meanwhile had taken some bar work. He preferred it to waiting tables. 

One night, the bar owner introduced his latest acquisition. A karaoke machine. Witold listened with pleasure as all the songs he had loved were taken out and dusted off once more. One night he had tried it out for himself. He had never sung publicly before, but found that he had a real talent. Eliot had said that he should try out for a show or a band, but he demurred. He was happy within the intimate ambience of a club or a bar. 

Nowadays he owned his own machine and toured clubs and bars encouraging others to sing. It didn't matter if they were good, bad or indifferent, as long as they tried. The hardest part was closing his mind to their futures. 

Eliot locked up and they walked the few blocks to the building where they each had an apartment. It was Eliot's turn to cook, so he picked up his mail in the lobby and led the way to his door. Witold put the filter machine on and turned to see his friend looking pale and close to tears, reading a hand-written letter. 

"Eliot, what's wrong?" 

"It's my Mom - she's sick. Aunt Maggie says she's had a stroke." 

Witold thought of his own mother, and how he hadn't been there when she passed away. 

"You have to go. Of course you have to go. Can I help?" 

"I'll need some time to organise - maybe a week. Could you help me with all the stuff I need to do ? I'm not sure what...I don't know..." He tailed off, bewildered. 

Witold hugged the man who was his family - his only friend - and knew that he would lose him. He turned away and focused on the dripping of the filtering coffee. He tried not to count the splashes. That would be all too much like marking time. 

Eliot snapped the catch on his suitcase and carried it out to the hall. Witold lurked behind him, feeling useless. Eliot turned and put a hand on his friend's shoulder. 

"Darling, listen to me. You have a gift. In fact, you have many gifts but you know the one I mean. You should use it. I have money - you have money. Why not open a club?" 

Witold began to refuse, then stopped and thought. If he used his ability he might see a lot of unpleasant things. On the other hand, he could do some good. Sometimes in unguarded moments he would see a future that could be changed - improved. He nodded. 

"You know, Eliot - that's a great idea. Will you come and sing for me if I do?" 

Eliot nodded. His eyes were filled with tears as he said goodbye to the boy who had been so much to him over the years. He picked up his cases and turned away. 

"Call me when you get there." 

Eliot paused, nodded and headed downstairs to his waiting cab. 

For the second time, Witold was orphaned. 

****

**1991**

The bar shone, the glasses gleamed, and the guest list sparkled. 

"Little E" smoothed his hair in the mirror and gulped down some complimentary champagne. 

"Excuse me - ah - Boss?" A nervous barman approached him "Are we ready now?" 

Was he? It had been a long hard task to get the club up and ready. He had used all of his savings and most of Eliot's to pay for it. Eliot never had called in the end. Instead he wrote a letter explaining that he was going to remain in Virginia with his mother and aunt. He had wished Witold well and finished the letter by asking what he intended to call his club. "After all," he wrote "names are an important part of destiny" 

The crowd gathered around the stage. The elegant green demon picked up the microphone and for a moment warmed himself in the heat of the spotlight. 

"Thank you all so much for coming and supporting us tonight - I hope that you will all favour us with a song one day." 

There was a smattering of applause. _I have to introduce myself_, he thought_, names are destiny._ _Bye-bye Witold_. _ You were a goodish name, but I'm in showbiz now._

"I am the Host, and I would like to welcome you here to my future - and a large part of yours, I hope - so may I get the ball rolling with an all-time classic number.." 

Witold - the Host - closed his eyes and images of his Grandmother, Mother and of Eliot filled his mind as he launched into "Let it Be". 

Outside, pink and blue neon picked out the club's name. _Caritas_ - destiny 

~end 


End file.
